


What Remains

by TriscuitsandSoup



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dead Allison Argent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Chris Argent/Peter Hale, Nogitsune Aftermath, Nogitsune Trauma, Post season three, Stiles Stilinski Feels Guilty, Stiles-centric, season three aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 03:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10585149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriscuitsandSoup/pseuds/TriscuitsandSoup
Summary: The taste of beer and the scent of cheap cigarettes weren’t enough to overtake the sickening and twisted thoughts that wound themselves up in Stiles’ core even as the alcohol sloshed around uneasily in his belly. He took another gulp from his can and tried not to hate himself for wanting more. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the faces of nurses, deputies … even of Allison. Everyone he hurt flashed behind his eyelids. His eyelashes cradled tears he hadn’t yet shed.He slouched low in his seat and kept his head propped up by his hand. He heard footsteps and dull chatter behind him but paid no mind until an all too familiar voice whispered in his ear, “I don’t think you’re old enough to be here.”*The petopher is not the main focus of this fic.*





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TriDom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriDom/gifts).



> For my lovely Tridom's birthday <3

The taste of beer and the scent of cheap cigarettes weren’t enough to overtake the sickening and twisted thoughts that wound themselves up in Stiles’ core even as the alcohol sloshed around uneasily in his belly. He took another gulp from his can and tried not to hate himself for wanting more. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the faces of nurses, deputies … even of Allison. Everyone he hurt flashed behind his eyelids. His eyelashes cradled tears he hadn’t yet shed.

He slouched low in his seat and kept his head propped up by his hand. He heard footsteps and dull chatter behind him but paid no mind until an all too familiar voice whispered in his ear, “I don’t think you’re old enough to be here.”

Stiles took a shuddering breath. He slogged his head up from its perch and blinked another layer of wet from his eyes.

Peter hovered over him, one hand planted on the table and a quizzical look in his eyes.

“My I.D. says I am,” he answered. “You gon’ tell on me?”

In that moment he came the closest he’d ever been to cursing fate. He’d never believed or he’d never wanted to believe that life wasn’t an unalterable train track from which everyone careened down, obliviously, and ineffectively. He’d chosen this bar specifically because it was too far out of town for anyone who knew him to be in the crowd. Of course, he should have known that shady haunts like a seedy dive bar in the middle of nowhere would attract the attention of an amoral werewolf.

“I’m not your parent,” said Peter. Without asking permission he slid into the booth across from Stiles and moved the near-empty can of beer away from him.

“Hey,” said Stiles. He tried to snag it back but his hand missed by a quarter of an inch. He furrowed his brow as the can became two, and then returned to one. 

Peter tsk'd. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re not supposed to be here either. I thought werewolves couldn’t drink?” he retracted his arm and let himself slump further down the booth. He kicked his legs up to rest on the opposite seat beside Peter’s thighs.

“I’m not here alone,” said Peter.

“Who-?” Stiles started to ask.

Peter beckoning a waitress with cropped black hair and leather leggings over to their table.

“What can I get you, sweetie?” she asked.

“Water,” said Peter. “Three waters, actually.”

“Is Derek here?” Stiles asked, almost hopeful. At least Derek knew when not to say anything. He understood the importance of silence.

“Christopher,” said Peter. “He'll be back soon.”

“Christopher?” it took Stiles a second to place the name. His heart jumped into his throat. His fingernails raked into his jeans. “You mean Chris? Chris _Argent_? Peter I can't – I can't see Chris.”

“Yes you can,” said Peter, “and he can see you.”

“Give me my beer back, Peter.” Stiles tried once more to grab it, but it was pulled easily from his fingertips.

Peter shook his head and set the can on the other side of the table, far out of Stiles’ reach.

The waitress returned with several glasses of water. She set them down and then went off again after Peter assured her he didn’t need anything else.

Peter shook his head. “You can have this,” he said, motioning towards the beer, “once you've finished _this_.” He slid the water slowly towards Stiles’ side of the table.

Stiles glared at it. Still, he grabbed it, took a swig, and swallowed it all down in a matter of seconds. Some of it dribbled onto his chin and subsequently his shirt, but he didn't care in the slightest. He just wanted his beer back.

“That's a good boy,” Peter praised.

“Peter, seriously. I really doubt Chris wants to see me right now. I don’t – I don’t think this is a good idea. You should leave, or I should leave or-”

“No,” said Peter with a stern face. “This is going to happen whether you want it to or not. You can’t hide from this forever.”

Stiles' lips trembled. He looked to the bar to see if there was enough time to escape.

Standing there, in a black coat with jeans was Chris, looking impossibly solemn and downcast amidst the loud noises and laughter of the other patrons. He picked up a shot glass as the bartender set it down and tossed it back in one gulp. He pushed it back, put a few bills on the table, and turned to face the booths in the back. His eyes were darker and the lines on his face were deeper.

Chris’s eyes met his own. They both winced simultaneously.

Stiles jerked his head away. The faint warmth of beer in his belly dissipated under the sobering chill that crept through his body.

“This isn’t a good idea,” he murmured. “You should go.” 

Peter sighed and tapped his nails on the table, then he signaled for Chris to join them and Stiles sunk lower in the booth, wishing he could just disappear into the floorboards. He wrapped himself up in his arms and pulled his hood up over his head. It was the only hoodie he hadn’t thrown away, the only one he thought hadn’t been tainted by the Nogitsune.

“It’ll be fine,” said Peter.

“I don’t-“ Stiles started to say. He couldn’t find the words and so he turned his face away towards the corner of the booth and drew his feet up onto the seat. He couldn’t have been more bunched up if he tried.

He saw a dark figure hovering at the end of the booth and new from the stick-straight body posture it had to be Chris. Stiles resisted the urge to take another gulp of his beer but his head was already swimming and it would require him to look up from under his hood.

“Sit down,” said Peter. He grabbed Chris’s sleeve and tugged him down into the booth. 

In his periphery, Stiles saw Chris slid uneasily into his seat. He knitted his hands together on the table and looked out at the bar, as if he didn’t even see the teenager crowding himself into one corner.

“Did they have what you wanted?” asked Peter, propping his head up on one hand.

Stiles risked letting his gaze flicker up.

“Whiskey? Yes, Peter. The bar had whiskey.” Chris’s voice was hoarse, but when he addressed the man next to him there was a slight uptick of his lips.

It occurred to Stiles that up until that very moment he had never seen Peter and Chris together in the same room. He knew they were aware of each other, as well as their complicated history, but he’d never seen them _together._ Sitting there, with their eyes locked and their shoulders touching they looked like any normal couple. That they looked like a couple at all came was strange.

“Good,” said Peter. “Say ‘hi’ to Stiles.” 

Chris’s fingers tensed. His lips tightened.

Stiles felt like he’d been slapped. He didn’t look away and only swallowed down another lump in his throat. “H-hi,” he said meekly.

“Hello,” said Chris with an awkward formality. He turned to Stiles, his gaze lingering briefly on the beer beside him. “How have you been?”

“I've been . . . “ Stiles fiddled with his thumbs. How could he say he was good after he killed the mans daughter? How could he say he was fine when Chris’s entire family, the life he'd built had been crushed completely and absolutely between him and Scott. A month. Only a month had passed. It felt like hours. “I've been okay. How have you been?” Stiles asked, risking a glance up.

The weary exhaustion on Chris’s face made him fear the answer.

“I've been better,” Chris admitted. Unlike Stiles, who'd gone twitchy with nervous anxiety, Chris was a stone wall. He was still, calm. He was a stone underneath the waters of a raging river. He did not budge, he did not move, but in time Stiles was certain he would be swept away.

“Chris, do you think Allison’s death was Stiles’ fault?”

Stiles bit his lip so hard he thought it would break. He grabbed his beer and downed what little remained.

“Jesus Christ, Peter,” Chris said. His brows furrowed and his hands clenched tight. “Don’t ask shit like that in front of him.” He jerked his head towards Stiles.

“No,” said Peter. “You won’t even say his name anymore. I’ve seen Stiles’ jeep every night outside another shady bar. You’re both miserable but you won’t talk about it with me and I know he wouldn’t be _here_ if he were talking about it. So, we’re going to talk about it now. Do you think Stiles is responsible for Allison?”

Stiles' eyes burned. He wanted to leap up from the table and run out the door but he was certain he wouldn’t get more than a few feet. Not without falling flat on his face and feeling like a coward. If Chris hated him he had more than enough right to be after all he’d done.

“No, of course I fucking don’t. He’s just a _kid_.”

Stiles lifted his head.

“Stiles,” Peter said, his voice held an uncommon softness to it. “Do you think Chris wanted to kill you? Do you think he’s upset he never got the chance? Is it his fault all these bad things keep happening?”

“ _No_ ,” said Stiles in a choked voice. “I mean if I- he didn’t – he didn’t make me get possessed. He tried. He tried to help me.” He couldn’t stop the tremble in his lips from muddying his words as he tried to talk. “I’d hate me too.”

Chris’s brows quirked up. “I don’t hate you.”

“You should,” said Stiles. He wiped away some of the tears that rolled down his face. “I- _everything_ is my fault. Your family – I didn’t –“ he was cut off by a wet, strangled noise bursting from his throat.

Chris was up from the table in a second. He forced his way into Stiles’s side of the booth and when he raised his hand Stiles thought he was going to hit him. But instead he wrapped his arms around Stiles shaking shoulders and pulled him close.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. It’s not your fault,” said Chris as he held him tight. His calloused hand rubbed over the space between his shoulder blades. His touch was warm and a little too rough, just like his father’s always was.

“N-no,” said Stiles. He buried his face into Chris’s shoulder, unable to resist the much-needed warmth of another person next to him. “It _is._ ”

“I don't blame you for Allison, Stiles,” Chris whispered. The scent of whiskey was heavy on his breath, more than just one shot glass could have done.

“Do you blame yourself?” Stiles couldn’t help but to ask.

Chris stiffened. He was quiet. His fingers dug into the cloth of Stiles’ hood.

“Sometimes,” he admitted softly. “I brought her into this world.”

“ _Scott_ brought her into this world,” Stiles said with a small little hiccup lagging after his words.

Chris laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Sometimes I blame him too. But you’re all just teenagers.”

“You shouldn't blame yourself either,” Stiles mumbled.

Stiles lifted his head and looked up to find Chris was staring down at him. They each had tears in their eyes. Stiles’s came a little quicker, a little more naturally as they flowed down his reddened face.

“Are you leaving because of me?” he asked. “Because of what I-?”

“Because of what an evil spirit _made_ you do?” Chris asked, his already husky voice deepening. “I’m leaving because Isaac and I both need a fresh start. Some of that has to do with the Nogitsune’s influence, but none of it has to do with you.” 

“Fresh start sounds good. It sounds really, really good, actually,” Stiles wiped his eyes on the edge of his sleeve and pulled away from Chris.

Chris allowed the movement but slid his hand from Stiles’s back to rest against his shoulder.

“If you wanted,” Chris hesitated, “you could come with? Your father would have to be okay with it, but if you want … just for the summer …”

Stiles smiled weakly. “Th-thanks,” he said, “but I can’t leave my dad.”

“I understand,” said Chris, although he sounded almost disappointed. “But if you need anything you know where we’ll be.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said.

“I’ll be staying here,” said Peter.

Stiles turned to him, he’d gotten so lost that he’d forgotten Peter was there.

He sat forward with his head resting on his hands. “I have to take care of Derek. So even though Chris won’t be around as much I still will be, and I’m sure my nephew will find somewhere new to skulk by the end of summer.”

Stiles nodded, not knowing what else to say. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon,” said Peter. “We just stopped by for a pre-flight drink. The airport bars charge far too much.”

“You’re going too?” Stiles asked, furrowing his brow. “I thought-“

“Just for a bit,” said Peter. “Maybe someday I’ll tell you about it but for now the two of us should be going.” He sighed and stood up, stretching his arms up above his head.

Chris stood up as well, giving Stiles shoulder one last squeeze before he did.

“You take care of yourself,” Chris said. Somehow the tears in his eyes had already rescinded back behind his stony face.

“You too,” said Stiles. “And thanks, Peter,” he mumbled. His voice was barely audible, but he had no doubt the werewolf would pick up on it.

Peter reached across the table and brushed some of the hairs from Stiles’s eyes. “I’ll call you a cab,” he said softly. “You stay here until then, okay?” 

“Okay,” Stiles said. “Thanks.”

As he watched Chris and Peter leave, their hands brushing against each other just slightly while they walked he felt like he could breathe again.


End file.
